


Punch

by speccygeekgrrl



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-06
Updated: 2009-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting tipsy at the Company holiday party is not the brightest of ideas, but it is one of the most fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch

"And what are _you_ doing for Christmas?" It's a question Noah would never ask without having gone shot-for-shot with the Haitian earlier in the night, but he had, and he had definitely come out the loser in that competition. Sylar looks him over dubiously-- cheeks flushed, tie loose and collar open, blue eyes ridiculously bright-- and shakes his head.

"The same thing I do every night, most likely." He's nowhere near as trashed as Bennet; Sylar is at the pleasantly mellow stage of drunk, and holding steady with a slowly-nursed cup of well-doctored punch. When Noah leans next to him on the wall, he's not bothered enough to move away.

"It's a good thing there aren't any chimneys going down to the basements. You're not a good boy," Noah points out, making Sylar snort.

"Whatever you say, Santa." He glances down into his cup, rolls his eyes and drains it. "Christmas is pointless. It's more a commercial event than a religious one, and even when it was primarily religious, it was crafted as a takeover of the winter solstice holidays of nature-based and pagan peoples being forcibly converted." This time it's Noah's turn to blink for a speechless moment.

"I didn't know you felt so strongly about it." Sylar smirks and starts walking toward the punch bowl.

"I don't. I just thought I'd raise the level of the conversation from kindergarten to college." Noah follows, enjoying bothering the younger man for a change. "Aren't you going to try and catch my mother under the mistletoe? You watch her a lot, for a middle-management kind of guy."

"Angela's not the Petrelli I'm interested in," Noah answers thoughtlessly. Sylar almost chokes on his newly-refilled cup of punch, ends up coughing fitfully anyway, and he shies away when Noah goes to pat him on the back.

"I am not even close to drunk enough to hear this from you. I don't think I've ever been drunk enough in my life."

"Oh, shut up. I didn't mean that way. I mean, we have to deal with each other, so why shouldn't we, you know--"

"--overshare about things and forget this ever happened by tomorrow?"

"Exactly!" Noah points one finger, not noticing how it wobbles as he aims it at Sylar's chest. "Yes. The Haitian was never a big sharer... mostly because he never used to talk... but Claude and I, the things we insist we don't remember..." He sighs almost wistfully, and all Sylar can do is stare while Noah pours himself another drink. "It's practically tradition."

"I'm not a big believer in tradition," Sylar points out, but he holds out his cup so Noah can refill it once more. Honestly, it's kind of fun. He's never had to work closely with another person before, and now that Bennet is starting to balance out Sylar threatening Claire's life with his subsequent saving of said life, the partnership is more than simply tolerable. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"There's always mistletoe." There's a sprig over the doors that lead to the hallway, and Noah nods toward the arch with a slightly quirked eyebrow that just barely manages to miss looking corny. "What's the worst that can happen?" That's a stupid question, especially stupid to ask a psychopath in rehabilitation, but Sylar just bites his lips, shrugs, and starts toward the doorway at a casual stroll.

He quite nearly makes it out the door before he feels a hand on his arm. When he turns, he doesn't know exactly what to expect, but he has no idea how to react to Noah Bennet slipping him the tongue in front of God, his mom, and the whole Company; the punch slips out of his hand and he stops it a split second before it hits the ground, all of his reactions delayed by the way Noah is taking over his mouth. By the time Noah steps back, Sylar feels like he's been bagged, tagged, and dropped back on the street with a bad case of vertigo and no memory of how he got there.

Someone catcalls from the other side of the room, and Sylar flees, leaving the cup to spill across the floor, leaving a puddle of violent red sweetness around Noah's shoes.

"You ran away," Noah says when he finds Sylar twenty minutes later, staring out of a window in the study that used to be Bob's and hasn't changed at all since passing into Angela's possession.

"I retreated strategically," Sylar answers, but his voice has none of the usual cynical humor in it, just distance and a certain fragility. "That wasn't a kiss under the mistletoe, that was a blitzkrieg."

"So your mouth is Poland? I thought you were Italian." Ignoring Sylar's stay-away body language, Noah joins him by the window, and they both stare out at the snowy trees surrounding the building. The Hartsdale facility is much nicer from the outside than the one in Odessa, but it also doesn't have to disguise itself as a paper company.

"If you're carrying it that far, then you're a Nazi," Sylar points out, and he smirks and catches Noah's hand when the older man goes to swat at him. "Drop the extended metaphors, just tell me why you did that."

"We agreed to forget it... I wanted something memorable to forget." Noah's grin is inflammatory, more sober-looking than he is, and Sylar throws his last reservations to the wind and grabs Noah by his fair hair, dragging him closer for a kiss as rough as the first one was smooth; instead of a slick play of tongues, this kiss is made of lips and teeth, Sylar asserting his dominance right from the start with a bite to Noah's lower lip that leaves it aching and swollen, a constant undertone of pain to go with the pleasure to come.

"Maybe you could pretend with Claude," Sylar growls in Noah's ear, parting from his mouth for a moment, "but you aren't forgetting me, Noah, this night is going to stick in your memory." The cold window is a shock through the thin fabric of Noah's shirt, but not as shocking as the way Sylar grabs his ass and squeezes. "Did you think I didn't notice every time you tried to get a rise out of me on a stakeout? All those innuendos you thought you were so clever slipping into conversation, like the sheltered little watchmaker couldn't catch on or couldn't help but blush?"

"I didn't," Noah protests, but as well as he can lie when sober he's awful at it when drunk. Sylar bites his lip again, making Noah groan under the infliction of teeth.

"You did. And then you did _that_ under the mistletoe and expected me to stay?" He kicks Noah's feet apart and fits himself against Noah as easily as if this were routine for them, pressing against Noah's hip hot as a cup of coffee and hard as a gun barrel. "I've been holding back for a long time. Not any more." Wrapping a hand around the loose knot of Noah's tie, Sylar drags his head up for another savage, hungry kiss, taking what he's daydreamed of for so many hours in the passenger seat of a company car.

Noah's resistance crumples in seconds; no one has _ever_ tried anything like this on him in his entire life. He's used to being the aggressor, or at least taking a more active role, but right now he has no option but to take whatever's being dealt to him, and it's-- well, it's intoxicating, more than the rum floating through his veins, more than the thrill of making Sylar uncomfortable in front of so many people. This is something he should be fighting, but Noah yields and finds himself enjoying the way Sylar holds him between the ice of the window glass and the fire of a lean strong body.

Rolling his hips, Sylar can feel Noah hardening against him, and he sighs against the older man's mouth, working the buttons of his shirt open with a thought, never loosing the tight grip around his waist. When Noah finally responds, threading a hand into Sylar's hair, that's all the acquiescence Sylar needs from him to move, pulling Noah away from the window and pushing open his shirt before herding him toward the couch in the middle of the study. "Are you always this easy, or just when you're drunk?"

"I'm not easy, I told you, it's tradition," Noah protests. Sylar just smirks, pushing Noah onto the couch and standing between his knees. "Like a holiday bonus."

"That is a horrible comparison. Unless this is actually Company-endorsed, in which case I refuse to think about it any more." Sylar obviously doesn't mean stop thinking about what they're doing, not when Noah is leaning forward to press his lips against the thick shaft straining under Sylar's pants, mouthing through the fine cloth. "Fuck, Noah..."

"You talk too much," Noah informs him, flicking open Sylar's pants and untucking his shirt, taking his sweet time until Sylar swears again, pulls himself free of snug boxer-briefs, and taps his cock against Noah's mouth.

"So let's not talk," he suggests. To his surprise, Noah sits back slightly, removes his glasses and hands them to Sylar, licks his lips and only then moves back in to take the suggestion with gusto. Sylar almost drops the glasses, shocked at Noah's enthusiasm; he puts them on to free up his hands, leaning over Noah with a hand braced on the back of the couch and one cupping the back of the blond head, nothing rough left in his show of force. Noah's sarcastic, quick mouth is incredible, his shoulders broad and the top of his hair starting to thin, and Sylar has felt more affection for Noah since their partnership began than he's felt for anyone since his mother died, but this feeling is not affection.

This feeling is like the one he gets right before he takes a new ability-- the same flutter in his stomach, anticipation so fierce he can taste it; the same grasping _want_ to take something for his own-- but there's nothing in Noah's brain he wants, nothing he can take and incorporate into himself. He simply wants Noah, in a way he hasn't wanted anyone in years, and every little jerk of his hips that Noah takes with a muffled moan both satisfies that want and stokes its flames still higher.

Part of Noah's mind is occupied with thoughts of how nice it would be to have a shot of tequila and a lime at hand after this. Most of it, though, is focused on what limited parts he can see of Sylar: a line of coarse hair on his stomach thickening as it trails down, the sharp definition of hips under his hands, pale skin and muscle and the inside of Sylar's wrist as his hand strokes Noah's cheek. "Come on," he says, low and gravelly and needy, and Noah would smirk if he could but instead he drags a hand up Sylar's thigh, cups his balls and rolls them gently in his palm.

When Sylar comes, he does it almost silently, a soft groan on the exhale and his fingers tensing on Noah's skin; Noah lets him slip free and steadies him with hands on his narrow hips until he drops gracelessly onto the couch next to Noah. "I hope there's still tequila left," Noah says, rubbing his lips with the side of one hand; he completely misses the _look_ Sylar shoots him.

"Seriously? Because you could go look now, I could always find something else to do." In response, Noah curls a hand around Sylar's wrist and drags those deft fingers over to press against his untended erection.

"I swear to god, Gabriel, you walk out of here and I will hunt you down." The fact that the threat is delivered in a pleading voice makes Sylar laugh and pull Noah closer, almost into his lap. One arm steals around Noah's waist while Sylar undoes his fly and palms Noah through his briefs; when Noah lets his face fall against Sylar's neck and mouths up to the beat of his pulse, they both shiver.

"You look better out of the suit," Sylar says, tweaking Noah's nipple and tugging away the fabric until he springs free. "This should make long missions more fun." He forestalls any retort with a kiss, tipping Noah's head up with a telekinetic nudge as he starts to stroke Noah's cock. This time the kisses are lazy, no reason to hurry and no need to assert dominance; Noah's already on edge and Sylar wants to draw this out, tip him over all in good time. "You know, Noah, I think--" He cuts off quickly, hand stilling, and Noah can tell why at once.

High heels. A very distinctive pattern of high heels clicking. The two men share a terrified look; being caught by Angela Petrelli while getting a hand job from her son would probably result in Noah getting shot, never mind fired, and Sylar has a brief horrible flash of catechism classes. "Please," Noah whispers, not sure what he's asking for or what Sylar can do exactly. Lucky for him, Sylar's always been good at improvising. He locks the door from where they are, slides a table behind it, and drops down to lick kittenishly at the tip of Noah's cock, pushing the pace into overdrive.

Noah has to bite the side of his hand to keep quiet, and nothing can keep him from pushing up into Sylar's mouth when he comes in a scant few moments. Sylar's nose wrinkles, but he swallows anyhow, already setting Noah's clothes in order before the older man can catch his breath. The door rattles, and they can hear Angela talking to herself from the other side. "Look less... postcoital," Sylar hisses, making sure his own shirt is straightened and his pants closed before he moves the table away and stands up.

"Gabriel. I was wondering where you were," Angela says when Sylar opens the door. She doesn't look surprised, though, not even when she walks in and sees Noah on the couch, flushed and dazed and without his glasses.

"Noah wasn't feeling well, so I offered to keep him company," Sylar answers smoothly, doing an excellent impression of friendly concern. "Too many shots really kill the holiday spirit."

"Yes, we're all aware of Mr. Bennet's tendency to... overindulge at these events." Angela looks from the older man to the younger one, then rolls her eyes and walks past them to her office. "Just make sure you leave the study in order. And Gabriel, you might want to retrieve your necktie from Noah." Once she closes the door firmly behind her, Sylar pulls Noah to his feet and they walk back down the hall, in search of tequila and limes and any place where they won't have to see Angela for as long as possible.


End file.
